


And dreams of flying

by uumuu



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Accidental Voyeurism, Dreams, Father/Son Incest, Love/Hate, M/M, No Sex, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-07
Updated: 2015-01-07
Packaged: 2018-03-05 13:46:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 794
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3122414
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/uumuu/pseuds/uumuu
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fingolfin finds out that there are more obstacles between himself and his half-brother than he assumed.</p>
            </blockquote>





	And dreams of flying

It had, at first, seemed a perfectly innocent moment between father and sons. It was a sluggish evening, the indolent conclusion to a hectic day. Ñolofinwë had been strolling along the fenced garden at the far end of the palace grounds to relieve some of the stress of it when he had heard laughter, and recognized a voice he knew all too well. A voice that plucked strings of adoration and bitterness, of longing and anger, in equal number inside him. He walked up to the trellis, looking around to make sure no-one could see him, and pushed some of the ivy and flowers completely covering it aside.

Fëanáro was sitting on a large wicker chair with an intricate wide swooping back, Curufinwë at his side, their heads turned up towards Tyelcormo, who recounted something with dramatic gestures and exaggerated mimic. 

Ñolofinwë didn't hear his words; his eyes were fixed on his half-brother's face – how long had it been since he had last seen him? – and on his smiling lips. Lips that were always set in a thin hard line whenever he was in Fëanáro's presence, or curved in annoyance, but never never open in a way that brightened and softened his features and made him look boyish and carefree. 

Only after a while, when his eyes finally left his mouth, he noticed how Fëanáro's right hand was entwined with Curufinwë's, and how Curufinwë was practically half-draped over his father. They were so close – they looked so much alike – they could have been one and the same being, doubled by an insidious spell.

A last peal of laughter marked the end of Tyelcormo's tale – even Curufinwë's sneer transfigured to sweetness when he laughed – and Tyelcormo poured himself a drink from a carafe which stood on a near table.

It was then that it happened. Fëanáro and Curufinwë's amusement subsided and the two locked eyes, an almost palpable intensity chasing away mirth. Fëanáro said something, and his lips seemed to move, in Ñolofinwë's mind, with mesmerizing slowness. The next moment the two were kissing. It was not a chaste kiss, not a quick affectionate peck that could have passed for simple familiarity, but an open-mouthed, lewd kiss that left both panting when they separated.

Tyelcormo laughed – a sound that jarred in Ñolofinwë's ears metal grazing against stone – bent down and kissed his brother and then his father in the same manner. 

Ñolofinwë let the ivy go like a child caught stealing candy. He sat down on the first bench he could find, flustered and feeling suddenly hot. 

He refused to believe that what he had just witnessed was real. It had to be a delusion. Filthy spawn of his own twisted desire for his half-brother. It had to. The passion was the same he would have poured in such a kiss, the breathlessness was the one he wanted to experience. And the softness of those lips...

It had been too real. 

It was wrong, it was dirty. It was proof that Fëanáro truly knew no bounds. 

Ñolofinwë couldn't face all the implications of it – the fact that it made his silent love for his half-brother even more insignificant foremost among them. A wedge between them he could never ever hope to dislodge.

Jealousy etched the vision in his mind. It hounded him every day, every moment, even as he slipped into sleep. He started avoiding the enclosed garden, found himself glaring at Maitimo whenever he was with Findecáno, and was forced to start sleeping in a separate room, without being able to explain to Anairë why.

In his dreams, the scene took place in a locked, windowless room (but the chair was always the same). Sometimes, Fëanáro and his sons didn't just kiss, and he was forced to watch their lovemaking over the drone of a hammering, hollow, sound (and maybe it was just his own heartbeat). Sometimes, he had a knife and slit the sons' throats (they struggled and writhed but he held them down until their life had flowed away from their bodies together with their blood. The blood sprayed all over the chair, and on himself). Fëanáro was then at his mercy – his alone, with nobody else in the world to disturb them, nobody else to claim him. Ñolofinwë said something to him (he could never remember what), but Fëanáro didn't stir and looked up at him icily, lips tight in reproach and fury and loathing, until Ñolofinwë's chest and his bloodied hands seemed to burn, the knife clanked onto the ground and he woke with a start, sweat-drenched and painfully erect. 

In his nightmares, Fëanáro smiled at him blissfully, and they loved each-other, and the illusory happiness he felt when he awoke only pulled the strings of hopelessness tighter around him.

**Author's Note:**

> This is basically another take on the voyeur Fingolfin prompt that kept nagging me. It might get a sequel.


End file.
